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The Little Peepers have managed to do what no job in the world has ever been able to do to me: they’ve turned me into a morning person. Sort of.
Chickens get up with the sun. For the past two weeks, I have been out of bed by 7:30 a.m. Quick shower, get dressed, coffee, feed the dogs, and I’m out the door by 8 a.m. to take care of the Little Peepers.
I still have to drag myself a bit, but for the most part, I look forward to it. The neighbourhood is quiet. All I hear is silence (the definition of silence being the absence of man-made noise). It is, as Sharon Butala put it so eloquently, the perfection of the morning.
Clear, pristine, quiet, a slight chill. I find a sunny spot to stand in and warm my hands and face, while the girls explore the yard. It reminds why I love the prairies. I would never have a morning like this living in Toronto. I listen to the bird song, to the hawks and falcons, to the sparrow protecting her nest, to my girls peeping and clucking happily to themselves as they forage and eat grass. I inspect the yard, see which plants have buds, see if there’s any new green stuff poking its head through the dirt.
I finally know what it means to get out of bed with a purpose. When I’m taking care of my chickens, I feel like a human being. And Morning, you’re not such a jerk after all. In fact, I like you. Sort of.
Happy Earth Day.
Their bottom feathers remind me of fancy crinolines peeking out from underneath a party dress.
